


By This Hand

by geniewithwifi



Series: All At Once [11]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, HEA, IT ENDS HAPPY WITH OTP REUNITING, It's more complicated that just "Character Death", Just trust me on this one okay?, apparent character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 09:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geniewithwifi/pseuds/geniewithwifi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There, in the corner near his nightstand sat a girl, one leg crossed over the other, glasses set on her nose, blonde hair swinging in a ponytail as she shook her head at him, the clicking sound coming from her brightly painted lips. .</i> </p><p>  <i>He was chilled to the bone from just looking at her because she was so incredibly familiar. And not in a good way. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	By This Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fic_Zorro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fic_Zorro/gifts).



> A/N: So this is something I started a couple of days ago, and I wrote a sentence that rung true to me, but it was very angsty and dark and depressing, borderline EVIL and I was like “no, no, I can't do that they'll all hate me” and deleted that sentence and took a different route, more light and happier. That happier story? isn't the one I'm telling.
> 
> This fic is the one I wasn’t brave enough to write that day. Turns out, that today I am.
> 
> Please Trust Me. Rated M for Character Death. **Angst with a Happy Ending.**

Oliver woke violently, tossing the sheets over the edge of the bed and grabbing the knife he always held underneath his pillow. He turned towards the door, sure that something over there was what had awoken him. His heart thundered in his chest, and his breaths came in harsh pants. The adrenaline running through his veins heightened his senses, alert for danger.

The door was firmly shut, the crossbow he had set up to fire should anyone open the door -- the one he painstakingly set every night before he went to bed-- was still holding his custom made bolt. The door hadn’t been disturbed.

Then perhaps it was the window.

His head whipped to the other side of the room, ready for any intruder that had thought he was distracted by glancing at the door. Nothing. The steel barred window hadn’t budged, the curtains still, not a breeze fluttering them.

He was safe. All exit and entrance points were sealed and undisturbed.

Then what had awoken him?

It wasn’t a nightmare. He was absolute on that. Many times in the past he had jerked up, roused from his sleep --similar symptoms to the ones he had now–- by the terrifying memories he had of his past. He had escaped death too many times to not fear it.

A shrink would love to see his thought process. An angel, a harbringer of death fearing the very end he inflicts? What master should fear the blade he wields? Death should be his friend, not his enemy. 

This was not Oliver's experience.

He had too many sins on his hands to be given the peace of death, the place he had sent all of his targets. This is why he feared it. The judgement, the criticism. The hope, the joy of the afterlife, if there was just a thing, a man like him didn’t deserve it. The blood on his hand negated his passage. So he feared it instead.

A clicking sound, faint but there, alerted him and he dove from his miserly thoughts to the present, whirling around, standing up to locate the noise.

There, in the corner near his nightstand sat a girl, one leg crossed over the other. Dark-rimmed glasses were set on her nose, blonde hair swinging in a ponytail as she shook her head at him. The clicking sound was coming from her brightly painted lips, he realized. What captivated him the most was her blue eyes half hidden behind the glasses, an intense color like the blue just on the edge of the horizon, the deepest part of the sky. They were so expressive, conveying her thoughts like a television screen, reflective but windows to another world.

He was chilled to the bone from just looking at her because she was so incredibly familiar. And not in a good way.

“Hmm, I’m disappointed. I was sure you would wake up as soon as I appeared. Turns out I was wrong. Guess I lost that bet with myself. You slept like a baby, snoring without a care. It wasn’t until I made any sort of sound, that the great assassin himself, The Arrow, made a move. And then, it took ten seconds for him to locate me. It’s very embarrassing.”

Her voice mocked him, soft but strong, sarcastic and yet very sincere. Her very presence was a contradiction because while she was sitting, she wasn’t sitting _on anything._

“Who are you?” His voice came out rough, garbled from sleep. Still, the bark hit its mark. The mystery woman slightly flinched, before gracefully climbing to her high heel clad feet. He traced his way up her finely toned legs, past the curve of her hips and chest, to the arch of her neck. Her skin was creamy, as though she had never seen the light of the sun. Around her, the light fractured, before reassembling, almost displaced by her existence.

The woman laughed, a happy sound with a note of discord at the end. It made him sad to hear it, the feeling that this woman didn’t deserve to be sad ringing in his heart. “You know who I am, Oliver Queen. Or do you not recognize me? Do you not recognize” and suddenly her voice turned hard, her eyes blazing with righteous anger, “this?” And she turned around, showing him her left shoulder, a gaping hole in the middle it, crusted with dried blood, torn from his sharpest arrow. A hole he knew led to her heart.

After all, he was the one that gave it to her.

“Felicity Smoak.” 

“So you do know who I am? I thought that you might have forgotten me.”

“No, not you. All the others, the assigned targets all fade into a blur best forgotten. But not you. Never you.”

“Why? Because I was a mistake? Because I wasn’t supposed to die? Because you missed your target, a man who claims he never misses?

“Because I loved you!” He whispers yet he felt like he shouted it. “I  _love_ you. But you weren’t supposed to be there. You were supposed to be safe.” He crumbled back to the bed, collapsing with the memories. Of releasing that arrow, of his target drinking champagne, of Felicity stepping into the path of the speeding object, turning to talk to the man marked for death…

A hand came to rest on his cheek, a solid warmth, before it disappeared, a wisp of cold brushing past. He opened his eyes to see her standing there, her head cocked, pity swimming in her eyes.

“Oh, Oliver.”

He drew back away from her, curling in on himself, steadying the crashing emotions at seeing her. “What—How are you here? You’re dead.”

“Yes,” came the immediate reply, “because you killed me.”

He bowed his head, shame and regret clashing, swirling, fighting, in him, making him feel sick to his stomach. 

That morning he had woken up, kissed her on the lips and told her that he needed to do this, do his job for one more day before he quit. He was getting out all because of her. Not to mention the ring hidden in his quiver. 

Oliver had planned to ask her that next night, an elaborate stay at home dinner celebrating him moving on from the job that “brought shadows and anger and heartbreak to his eyes.” 

A night that never came. 

The second his arrow hit her, it was like he was dying; his entire future flashed before his eyes. Their future. The one that could never be because of him.

“Hey. hey.” She patted his cheek. “Oliver, stop blaming yourself.”

“But it’s my fault. It’s  _my fault_ that you’re dead. I was going to ask you to marry me, you know. I had it all planned out.” He wiped the lone tear that had escaped down his cheek. “And then I went and ruined it.” 

“Ask me.” Came the unexpected response. 

He looked up startled, seeing the love shining in her blue eyes. His expression must have been of total befuddlement because she sat down next to him. 

“Ask me, Oliver. Please.”

“Please, don’t… I can’t. Felicity, I can’t.”

“ _Please.”_

Baring his heart against the pain that was crashing on it’s shore, the storm rising the tide, he slid off the bed and knelt in front of her, attempting to take her ghost hands in his. 

“Felicity Meghan Smoak,”he stopped, his throat closing off from the emotions brought by the simple act he had envisioned with such longing. He powered through though, because this was her last request and he could never deny her anything. 

“Would you do the honor of becoming my wife?” He closed his eyes, waiting for he answer, an answer he didn’t think he would get because he didn’t deserve happiness. He knew the second he asked her, she would be whisked away back to where she had come from, apart from him. 

Two warm, solid hands gripped his cheeks, the palms under his chin, forcing his head up. Hands that stayed there, tangible against his skin. Oliver’s eyes flew open, to find Felicity still there, a watery smile gracing her beautiful features. 

“Yes, Oliver, yes. I will marry you.” She reached down and took one of his hands, his right one and brought it over her should to rest on her shoulderblade, right where a gaping hole should be.

All he felt was smooth skin. 

He gasped in surprise, his hand rubbing, exploring, searching for that hole, but found no blemish. 

She was whole. He could feel her heartbeat. Felicity was  _alive._

Her smile had gotten bigger as his astonishment grew. 

“How?” he beseech her. 

“There’s a law up in heaven that if a murderer loves his victim enough, more than his own life, then that victim will be granted their life back.” 

Joy sprung up, erasing all the doubt and grief and pain, flooding his soul with rejuvenation.  

Oliver stood up, picked her up in a hug and swung her around, sounds coming from his lips, cries of happiness. She echoed his sentiments, tears splashing against his neck. 

He pulled back before daring forward and capturing her lips with his, plundering her mouth, expressing his love for her with actions rather than words. He lips were soft, and slightly chapped but whole, and warm and distinctly her. 

He loved kissing her but right then was his favorite. Because she was his and she was  _alive_. 


End file.
